


we both looked good

by hardlythewiser (sequinedfairy)



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-19 07:16:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11308428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sequinedfairy/pseuds/hardlythewiser
Summary: Jon and Tommy hook up at Favs' wedding. Then, things get confusing.





	we both looked good

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to [nahco3](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nahco3/pseuds/nahco3) for ideas/constant encouragement/a wonderful beta and [grace](http://archiveofourown.org/users/grace) for moral support and kind comments.
> 
> as always, keep it secret, keep it safe, be chill. this is all completely made up.

When Jon woke up, it felt like all the elephants from the Natural History Museum’s Africa hall had come back to life and were roving around his head looking for leaves or whatever elephants eat. Considering that Jon’s fifth grade class trip to the museum had ended with him sobbing and refusing to move on to the dinosaurs, because he realized all of the elephants were real, even the baby, and someone had shot them, a major precipitating event for several years of relentless bullying and the source of the nickname “Gay Elephant Fucker” (which Jon still had some notes about), it wasn't a great sensation.  
   
In addition to the herd of elephants, Jon was too hot. His back was all sweaty and pressed against something warm, it felt like a fucking radiator, and there was a heavy weight on his side that snaked around to his belly, trapping him. He moved slightly, eyes still closed against what he could already tell would be a truly obscene amount of light, now just painful red shapes on the inside of his eyelids, and the radiator moved too, shifting in the same direction as Jon. The pressure against his belly increased, bringing his attention to another body part that was revolting. Jon paused. Clearly he would need a more delicate operation to extract himself from whatever he was waking up to.  
   
The radiator made a snuffly murmur right into his ear, and Jon realized belatedly that it was a person and not a radiator. Presumably a dude. Ideally, a hot dude who was not a repressed Catholic with a wife and kids, which would normally not be a concern, but he picked this guy up at Favs’ wedding so all bets were off.  
   
He tried to think back to the night, figure out what the fuck happened. After his toast, which was a rousing success even though Favs made him go right after Judge Black, which, rude, the memories got much hazier. He tried to think about which of the seven thousand straight dudes at Favs’ wedding (there wasn't even a gay cousin, which Jon didn't know was possible in 2017) seemed the most bicurious, but he kept just remembering flashes of Tommy, in his stupid tight suit, laughing at Jon’s jokes and fetching him more champagne. Clearly his memory was too addled to be helpful, so he'd have to do what he was trying to avoid doing and actually look at this dudes face. Probably it would be meaningless but at least he'd know how ashamed he should be.  
   
He turned his head as gingerly as possible, and the herd of elephants started a stampede. He forced himself to crack open one eyelid, and came face to face with -- Jesus Christ.  
   
Jon’s mom hated when he said that, gave him a lecture about Christian hegemony and not letting his children be raised goyim every time he slipped up in front of her, but too fucking bad, because Thomas Vietor the Fourth was lying there, sharing Jon’s fucking pillow even though there were at least four others spread across the top of the bed. Jon had clearly physically internalized WASP culture last night, as embodied by a human boat shoe, so a little mental internalization was nothing in comparison.  
   
Tommy’s eyes were still closed, and Jon could tell that there would be pillow creases on his cheek when he got up. Tommy had given Jon the best room in the groomsmen’s house, besides Favs’, because he’d been in charge of sorting out rooms and Jon was sitting next to him in the office demanding it. The room had a view of the ocean Jon had spent a lot of time looking out of yesterday when he needed a break from the relentless celebration of heterosexuality, his own annoying feelings of growing up and loss and change that he had no desire to examine further, and Tommy’s stupid guitar-playing fingers. He liked the view a lot, yesterday.  
   
Now, the morning light was gently illuminating Tommy’s face, making him look like a stupid Rembrandt painting Jon would see in an eight am art history class in college, still hungover from the night before and hung up on some dude with a girlfriend, and feel his breath catch in his chest. It was frankly rude, and Jon wished for a second that he had the shitty ground floor maid’s room that Tommy had given Favs’ dumbest bro friend, the one who tried to ask Jon how he and Ronan decided who topped, because they were both, “you know,” at the bachelor party. That room didn’t even have a window. He’d probably barely be able to see Tommy there, which would seriously help him figure out how to handle this. Tommy’s lips were parted just slightly, a little pinker than usual, and his annoying jawbone was as strong as ever, sturdy and enticing. Jon needed to get a grip.  
   
He turned back to the window, away from Tommy. It was as though the torture machine from the Princess Bride was installed behind his eyelids, the light was so bright and painful, but that was still preferable to the fucking Dutch Old Master garbage happening on the other side of the bed. He slowly, slowly slid his hand under Tommy’s arm, curled around Lovett’s hip, and started lifting. Once he got out of this bed, puked a little and ate a piece of dry toast, he could handle Tommy’s midlife wedding crisis or whatever led to this, or preferably just ignore it while Tommy’s New England repression kicked in.  
   
As Jon finally started moving away, the fucking antique bed, of course, squeaked. Jon froze, not daring to exhale. “Jon?” Tommy said, muzzily, Jon’s ear still only a few inches from Tommy’s mouth. Jon could feel his breath, could see Tommy’s fingers flexing, looking for something to touch. His middle finger brushed Jon’s stomach, and he dropped his arm back down onto Jon’s side, Jon’s hand caught between his own hip and Tommy’s elbow.  
   
“Uh, hey, Tommy,” Jon said. He tried to keep his voice neutral. Clearly, Tommy’s post-breakup-funk was more serious than he thought, so Jon wasn’t going to do anything to exacerbate it.  
   
Tommy pulled Jon back a little, and Jesus, he really was like a radiator. It should have been gross, all sticky and sweaty, but after looking at Tommy’s chest and arms, Jon couldn’t find it as gross as he did when he thought it was just some rando. “Morning,” Tommy rumbled, voice low and hoarse, and Jon really wished he could remember specifically why Tommy’s voice sounded like that, because God it was probably super hot. Jon could feel the vibrations against his back, and he shifted a little closer despite himself. Tommy’s hand slipped lower, and Jon had been avoiding processing it, but he was totally naked, could feel Tommy’s boxers and nothing else but warm bare skin against his own body. Tommy’s finger brushed over the end of Jon’s happy trail, and Jon made an involuntary noise. Tommy slid his hand around Jon’s dick, and Jon wasn’t a saint, he started to get hard. It was extremely unfair that he had forgotten everything but disconnected moments of the night before, and Jon wanted to make up for that. He turned toward Tommy, planning to bite at his collarbone, didn’t want to overwhelm him. Jon remembered a lot of kissing the night before, good kissing, but it was really different to kiss someone in the morning, and Tommy might not want to.  
   
Tommy kissed him as soon as Jon turned his head, moved his hand off Jon’s dick and to his hip, tugging and guiding until Jon was on top of Tommy. Objectively, both their mouths were gross, but Tommy was a good kisser, hand fisted in Jon’s hair, firm but not too pushy. The soft white sheets settled around their hips, and the elephant stampede in Jon’s head receded, chased out by Tommy’s big, steady hand and his tongue in Jon’s mouth.  
   
Jon could feel his Tommy’s dick hardening up against him. He was too hungover to blow him, but his dick felt nice, and Jon felt good from last night, wanted to have a real memory to jerk off about once Tommy came to his senses.  
   
“Wanna fuck me?” he asked, pulling away just millimeters. It was a risk, might freak Tommy out, but it seemed worth it.  
   
“ _Jon_ ,” Tommy said, voice even rougher, hands tightening where they rested on Jon’s lower back. Jon took that as a yes.  
   
***  
   
They woke up twenty minutes before their airport shuttle left, which Tommy realized when he glanced at his old, fancy, Dutch-merchant-money watch, the one he only wore for special occasions, which was resting on Jon’s hipbone because his fingers were wrapped around Jon’s thigh, and said, with a distinct lack of urgency or anxiety, “Oops, it’s almost one.”  
   
“Almost one???” Jon said. “Our flight’s at three! We’re in buttfuck nowhere, boat shoe Maine. Get up, we have to get there in time to get lunch, I’m not flying hungry _and_ hungover.”  
   
Tommy wasn’t moving, was just looking at him, smiling. “What?” Jon demanded, sitting up and immediately regretting that. His entire body was in revolt, and he couldn’t see the oak floors Emily told him all about while picking the rental houses because his entire bag was spilled all over the floor. He needed to shower, needed to pack, needed to get his shit together.  
   
“Nothing,” Tommy said, still smiling. “I can help you pack.”  
   
“Don’t you need to pack your own shit?” Jon asked, leaning over the bed to rifle through a pile of clothes for some clean boxers.  
   
He found some fucking TommyJohns. Six jokes popped into his head, but he couldn’t use any of them on an ad, so he didn’t bother to refine any of them. He stood up, facing away from Tommy, pulling his boxers on. Tommy slid over to the edge of the bed, slipped a hand around his hip. Lovett stepped away, bending over to find his flying sweats. Tommy was on the bed, not moving. Lovett saw a pair of suit pants over by the window -- how the fuck did they get there -- and walked over to them, picked them up and realized they were taller than Jon’s whole body, tossed them to Tommy. Tommy was still naked, comfortable with his body from years of boarding school and lacrosse practice and general fit broery, and Jon could barely look at him. Jesus, he was so hot. Jon felt every one of those stupid crab cakes he ate yesterday. He looked around for Tommy’s shirt, but he couldn’t find it.  
   
He tossed Tommy a random t-shirt that was probably not that dirty. “I’ll pack your suit when I find it, you should go pack up. I’ll probably mess up the creasing but you were bursting out of it anyway, you can just go back to the showroom and get one that you can actually breathe in,” he said, walking towards the bathroom to take a shower.  
   
Tommy was silent for long enough that Jon looked back as he put his hand on the doorknob of the bathroom. Tommy was just watching him, one hand pressing his face up, smiling. “You didn’t seem to mind my suit last night,” Tommy said.  
   
“Stop fishing for compliments,” Jon demanded. “I had to be in pictures with you all of yesterday, I know what you fucking looked like in your suit.”  
   
Tommy walked over, and Jon paused at the door, not quite sure what was coming. With one hand on the door next to Jon’s head, he cupped Jon’s cheek with the other and leaned down, kissed him once, long and sweet until Jon made a little noise wanting more. Tommy pulled away, looking smug, an annoyingly good look for him. “My bag’s basically packed, I’ll pack yours while you shower.”  
   
“Okay, boy scout,” Jon said, and escaped into the bathroom.  
   
***  
   
Miraculously, they made their flight with enough time for Tommy to buy them sandwiches, Advil, and Diet Cokes. They sat next to each other at the gate, Jon wolfing down his sandwich unattractively.  
   
He looked up to see Tommy looking at him, half his sandwich neatly wrapped and put away in his carry-on already. He ate with even more relish, feeling bits of lettuce fall out of his mouth. he figured Tommy would look away, but when their group was called Tommy was still looking at him, not grossed out, with hint of a smile on his face.  
   
On the plane home, they ended up watching _Spotlight._ Tommy dug up a clean napkin when Jon started crying, and didn't say anything when Jon looked at him challengingly, just put his arm around Jon and let him sniffle into his dumb Bar Harbor long sleeve. It was a faded red that shouldn’t look good on anyone but, of course, Tommy looked like the best version of every hot assshole Jon went to Williams with. Lovett wiped his snot on the shoulder in revenge.  
   
He woke up to Tommy’s gentle, “Hey, Lovett, we’re landing,” hand soft on his shoulder. Tommy’s eyes were on face, intent, which was fine, but Jon didn’t want to fuck again right now. He was gross and he needed to eat at least four shitty tacos and make sure Pundit forgave him for leaving her and scroll through Twitter in his bathrobe.  
   
Tommy carries both their bags to the Lyft pick-up spot, then says, “I could come over, if you wanted. Could be fun.”  
   
“Pundit and I need some one-on-one time, sorry. It’s important to reconnect after an absence, you know?”  
   
Tommy lost a little bit of the brightness that had been in his eyes all day. He should really just get a dog so he couls stop being jealous of Jon and Pundit’s bond. “Yeah, no problem,” Tommy said, pulling out his phone to get another Lyft.  
   
“I'll text you later tonight, though,” Jon offered. No reason to not take advantage of this sex for as long as it might last. It had been a couple months since he and Ronan officially broke up, and he was too fucking old to be on Grindr, even if he might have finally been famous enough to be successful at it.  
   
They got in separate cars, and Jon put in Del Taco as a stop. He was finally alone, like he hadn't been all weekend. It didn't feel as good he expected.  
   
***  
   
Around 10:30, Jon was sitting on the couch with Pundit’s head on his lap, feeling some average Sunday night depression. Usually he’d get a little high, play some video games until he fell asleep, but he remembered that he had another, better option for distraction. Jon texted Tommy, _Pundit loves me again you can come over if you want_  
   
He got a text back a minute later, _Great, about to leave. Want me to pick up beer? Snacks?  
   
Yes Hoegarden two six packs thanks  
   
See you in ten_  
   
Tommy rang his doorbell nine minutes later, and Pundit launched off Jon’s lap, racing to the door. Jon couldn’t believe Tommy usurped him in Pundit’s affection so effectively. He walked behind her, opened  the door. Tommy was standing there, in his nice jeans, too nice for 10:30 on a Sunday. Jon wondered what he’d been doing before Jon texted. He had his messenger bag across his chest, pulling his Pod Save America shirt so taut there was a hint of nipple, carrying two six packs under one arm, veins standing out of his forearms. He looked like a boyfriend you would describe on Twitter, not real life. For a second, Jon didn’t wanna let him in the door, because when Tommy walked in, whatever they were doing left the wacky wedding world and entered real life.  
   
Tommy put the beers in the fridge, took two out, opened them with the bottle opener on his keychain. Jon had at least six bottle openers in his kitchen, all bought when he couldn’t find any of the others, but he couldn’t say where any of them were. Tommy handed one to Jon, who was sitting on his counter, feet banging against the knobs of the cabinet. Tommy stepped in between his legs, loose and bro-y, so comfortable in Jon’s kitchen, in his body, with Jon’s body. Jon hated how sexy it was, wanted to put up more of a fight, but Tommy was slipping one hand under Jon’s thigh, fingertips pressing hard into Jon’s inner thigh, the soft fleshy part that never got firmer even when Jon actually ran multiple times a week.  
   
Jon couldn’t read Tommy’s face, but not because it was carefully blank like sometimes. There was a lot there, smile, crinkly eyes tracking Jon’s face, just a little furrow of his brow, but Jon couldn’t piece it together like he usually could. He looked over Tommy’s shoulder instead, at the fridge behind him, Favs’ save-the-date that Favs insisted on putting up himself, his best friend from Williams’ latest baby picture, the first thing printed out on the new Crooked Media printer that Jon insisted on taking home as a milestone, some takeout menus from places that won’t do Postmates. He took a long pull of his beer, and Tommy mirrored him.  
   
“How was your night?” Jon asked, still wondering why he was wearing his nice jeans.  
   
“Fine,” Tommy said, pressing his thumbnail into Jon’s thigh. “Prepped for my Wednesday interview, answered an angry email from Square Cash about your consistent Venmo references, went on a run. How’d you and Pundit bond?”  
   
Jon was rapidly losing the ability to have casual conversation, thanks to Tommy’s stupid big hand leaving what would hopefully be bruises on his thighs, but he didn’t want Tommy to win. “I fed her human food, she chewed up the robe’s tie, she seemed to —“ Tommy slid his first finger up to where it was brushing where his thighs met his ass, and Jon spread his legs instinctively, had to swallow, reorder his thoughts, get back on track. “Seemed to forgive me for abandoning her. I can’t believe Leo was the fucking ringbearer and they didn’t invite his sister, how gauche can you be.”  
   
Tommy laughed, a nice rumbly laugh. He leaned in closer, so his mouth was level with Jon’s, only a few inches away. “Extremely gauche,” he agreed. “Clear sign of new money. My great-aunt would have eviscerated them throughout society for that.”  
   
“I like your great-aunt,” Jon said, inanely.  
   
“Mmm, she was pretty hateful,” Tommy said, leaning even closer. “Definitely did not like Catholics or Jews, so would be pretty unhappy with my whole life.”  
   
“So being gay with a Jew —“ Lovett said, tilting his face up just a little.  
   
“She’s rolling over in her grave,” Tommy finished for him, and finally, finally, leaned in and closed the distance between them. Jon opened his mouth for him immediately, tugged Tommy in closer by his shoulders, one hand sweeping down the curve of his back, over the muscles that surround his spine.  
   
Tommy’s hands were on the edge of Jon’s robe, carefully pulling the sides apart. He was looking too much for Jon’s comfort, kept taking little breaks from kissing to look down, and Jon wrapped his legs around Tommy’s waist, annoyed, and pulled him in closer, scooting forward on the counter so their bodies were pressed together. Tommy refocused on kissing him, let his hands settle on his thighs, stroking over the skin his robe was no longer covering, leaving goosebumps in his wake.  
   
Once upon a time, when Jon was a just-graduated gay in New York, he felt insatiable about every touch, wanted to give himself up fully to whoever was touching him as soon as they showed obvious interest. He got fucked over a lot from that, and he boxed it away. He felt it again at the beginning with Ronan, just amazed that someone who looked so perfect wanted to touch him, and it was clear how that turned out.  
   
With Tommy it felt like that, but different. It was like he’s already submerged in want and only Tommy could pull him out, like he was drowning in the deep end of a swimming pool of his own desires and Tommy was going to bring him to air again, force the water out of his lungs and then help him back into the pool, teach him how to float, how to swim.  
   
Jon surfaced from his thoughts when Tommy slid a hand around his dick. He keened, and Tommy said, “Yeah, babe.” Jon hated how easy he was for a pet name, ever since Eric called him “baby” sophomore year before getting back together with his girlfriend as soon as she got back from study abroad, somewhere both weird and boring, South Africa or New Zealand or whatever. Eric still called him baby in low tones in assorted bathrooms and back rooms at parties that spring, and every time, Jon caved.  
   
He moaned at the “babe,” couldn’t help himself, and Tommy made a low, satisfied noise. Their dicks were pressed together, so Lovett could feel Tommy’s dick jerk at Jon’s moan, probably some caveman part of his maybe-not-but-probably-heterosexual brain telling him that he successfully claimed a mate. It annoyed him, a little, so he clung around Tommy’s neck tighter, lifted himself up enough to get his ass against Tommy’s dick. Tommy’s hands immediately moved to Jon’s ass, and he adjusted seamlessly to this new direction of their hook up, hoisting him up easily so Jon was only barely touching the counter. “C’mon, wanna ride you,” Jon said, pushy and a little bratty. Tommy nodded, bit his neck, hard, and was carrying him towards the stairs when Jon pushed away. Tommy put him down immediately, and Jon grabbed his hand, dragged him over to the couch.  
   
They fucked on the couch. Tommy had a little packet of lube in his wallet, which Jon figured took him several notches down on the heterosexual scale, and a condom, and when that packet spilled all over the couch Lovett dug out the lube he left in the weird drawer of the end table, because why live alone if you’re not going to make it enjoyable to jerk off in almost every room. Afterwards, after Jon had come all over Tommy’s abs and licked some off Tommy’s hands, after Tommy had flipped them over and moved Jon’s pliant body where he wanted it, after Tommy had come chanting, “Jon, Jon, Jon,” before he went totally breathless, Jon figured Tommy would pick up his pants, give Jon a polite kiss because he’s well-raised, and walk back out the door. Instead, Tommy fetched them wet paper towels, wiped them both clean, and then walked them to Jon’s room. Jon fell asleep quickly, his confusion losing swiftly to his exhaustion and his comfortable, warm bed, with his Parachute sheets, Tommy’s measured breaths, and the warm weight of his legs tangled with Jon’s.  
   
***  
   
In the morning, Tommy made them coffee and eggs, would have made them toast but Jon didn’t have bread, or milk, or anything. Jon was amazed he had eggs, and assumed Tommy had checked whether they were expired. Jon wore a t-shirt that might have at some point been Tommy’s, from when they lived together, and Tommy just wore boxers, and somehow they ended up back in bed an hour later.  
   
***  
   
Halfway through Tommy’s infuriatingly thorough and competent fingering, where Jon whined and told him to hurry up and Tommy ignored him and made him make horrible embarrassing squeaky noises, Jon said, “Oh shit, the pod.”  
   
“Fuck the pod,” Tommy said, immediately. Jon would have followed up, but Tommy crooked his finger just right, and Jon melted, unable to think about anything besides Tommy’s furrowed brow above him, his long thick fingers, the mark on his chest Jon must have left last night.  
   
***  
Forty minutes later, once Jon had caught his breath, Tommy doodling lazy patterns on his back with his fingertips, Jon’s head tucked into Tommy’s neck, Jon said, “But seriously, the pod?”  
   
“Everyone can wait a day,” Tommy said. “It’s fine, we can tell them we’re still hungover, it’ll be funny. We’ll do it tomorrow, we’ll just release the interview and the pod together instead of separately.”  
   
Jon really felt like he should argue. Favs had given them a long lecture about how important consistent days of pod-releasing were, and Tommy’s real brain would not be happy that his sex brain failed a work responsibility. On the other hand, Jon had never been good at enforcing responsibilities, and Tommy looked way happier than he’d been since he moved to LA alone, and Favs always approved of making Tommy happy. Also, Tommy’s thumb was rubbing against him again, almost dipping in, so Jon wasn’t really in a place to suggest they _stop._  
   
“Cool,” Jon said, and kissed him sloppily.  
   
***  
   
The next day, the pod was great. They were on the same page, trading off being furious, Tommy making a few good jokes and setting Jon up for way more. It was fun, felt like being alone with your friend in your house for the first time as a kid.  
   
The only weird moment was when Chuck Schumer, Jon’s _home state senator,_ told them a boring anecdote about “Schumer marriages” that suggested that he thought some pair of romantic partners involved with Crooked Media were an Obama marriage. Tommy did his usual practiced laugh when Schumer started, but he studiously avoided Jon’s eyes, refused to make a face about how funny this mix-up was. Jon was irrationally annoyed by Tommy so clearly separating them and their hookups from Crooked Media, even though he knew it made sense.  
   
So after they recorded their ads and got back to the office, while Tommy was checking his emails at his desk, Jon pulled Tommy’s rolly chair back enough that he could get in front without bumping his head. Tommy looked up, an easy smile almost starting, hands loose by his sides, not trying to move his chair back. “Hey,” he said, “what’s up? You hun--”  
   
Jon sunk to his knees, which shut Tommy up. Tommy was manspreading as always, so Jon didn’t even need to push his knees farther apart. He settled in, unbuttoning Tommy’s stupid button fly jeans, bitching as he did it. Tommy laughed, and he could feel it. Tommy’s hand had immediately settled in his hair, but right before Jon’s lips touched Tommy’s dick, Tommy yanked his hair not down, to Tommy’s dick, but back, so Jon was looking up at Tommy. Tommy was looking back down at him, cheeks flushed bright pink, biting his lip, staring.  
   
“Yes?” Jon asked, expectant, waiting.  
   
“Just wanted to see how good you looked,” Tommy told him, which, flattery was nice and all but they were in their office, Jon was trying to give him an under-the-desk blowjob, it didn’t really seem like the best moment to pause and put a soft look on his face, talk about how Jon looked.  
   
He ducked his head back down and Tommy let him, one hand cupping the back of his head, the other stroking where he could reach on Jon’s bicep. He finally got his mouth around Tommy’s dick, and fuck, it felt good. He focused on the head for a second, working the rest with his hand, before pulling off, inhaling, and sucking him down deep.  
   
“Fuck, Jon,” Tommy babbled. “You look perfect, fuck, taking me so well.” Jon loved enthusiastic commentary, which Tommy had clearly picked up on, so he rewarded him, pressing his tongue against the vein on the underside. Tommy’s hand slid around, cupping his cheek, his thumb on the edge of Jon’s mouth. Jon never got that hard from blowjobs, but Tommy was gripping Jon’s bicep, praising him exactly like Jon liked to be praised, and he could feel his dick getting harder.  
   
Jon pulled off for a second and Tommy pushed him back down, just a little. He blanched right after, said, “Fuck, sorry,” but Jon shook his head, grabbed Tommy’s hand and put it back in his hair, pressed down, hoping Tommy would get the message.  
   
Tommy did, as always, good old reliable Tommy. He gave Jon a second to breathe then pushed down firmly, setting a steady pace that Jon could relax into, keep his mouth open and let Tommy take control. Tommy called him sweetheart, babbled about how amazing Jon’s mouth felt, and then got quiet, still stroking his thumb on the edge of Jon’s mouth, slipping it in sometimes as he pulled Jon halfway off his dick before pushing him back down.  
   
When Tommy came, Jon swallowed, feeling a little dazed. Tommy tugged him up as soon as Jon made eye contact with him again, pulled him into Tommy’s lap, legs folded on either side of Tommy’s hips. Tommy kissed him, deep and searching, and Jon just opened his mouth again for Tommy’s tongue. Tommy shoved Jon’s pants open, making a gratified noise when he felt Jon’s hard dick. Jon wanted to make a joke, wanted to laugh about the absurdity of Jon blowing Tommy in their fucking office, but Tommy was rubbing his thumb over the head of Jon’s dick and the words flew out of his brain.  
   
Jon came quickly, with Tommy’s mouth on his neck and one hand on his ass, urging him forward. He came on Tommy’s shirt, which was objectively hilarious even though Tommy would definitely not be happy about it. But Tommy didn’t seem to mind, was just running his hands over Jon’s back, slow and easy, sliding under his t-shirt to reach bare skin.  
   
It reminded Jon of how Tommy touched him that one awful night, right before Jon left DC, when Tommy came home to Jon crying about being a failure and being scared and all the other horrible fears about moving to LA which were, in hindsight, pretty reasonable and had basically come true. Tommy had walked in on Jon sitting in the middle of his half-empty room, surrounded by open boxes and sobbing because he couldn’t decide if he should bring his fourth Williams sweatshirt or not. Tommy hadn’t really talked, just wrapped him up, made shushing noises, lifted him onto the bed. Tommy had still been in his suit, probably come from the fucking situation room, and Lovett had gotten tears and snot all over his stupid crisp white button down. He fell asleep on top of Tommy, humiliatingly, and woke up to an empty bed, Tommy back at work already. When he forced himself out of bed, he found a double chocolate muffin from the good coffee shop ten blocks away on the kitchen counter, and ate it, savoring the feeling of having Tommy take care of him, even as he knew it was just projection, Tommy trying to fix Jon because he couldn’t fix his engagement, couldn’t fix famines or wars or whatever other classified stuff was scaring the shit out of Tommy every day.  
   
But Jon wasn’t 29 and an overconfident, terrified idiot anymore, he’d made his choices and had his fuck-ups and built a life out of the leftovers, he was podcast royalty now, part of a juggernaut, and he didn’t need Tommy’s sympathy. He slid off Tommy’s chair and popped onto Tommy’s desk instead, moving his computer back, enjoying the feeling of being taller than Tommy, feet on the chair next to Tommy’s hips.  
   
“So, how was your first Jon Lovett Blowjob Experience? Did you pick right for your gay rebound crisis?” Jon asked.  
   
“What?” Tommy asked, apparently still a little sex stupid.  
   
“I know you’re bisexual, but picking someone up at at a straight wedding is very gay rebound crisis, the pressure of marriage, expectations and loneliness, you know, a great time to find a hookup but definitely some sort of cry for help.”  
   
“Hookup?” Tommy asked. Jon knew he was good at blowjobs, but honestly, he wasn’t _that_ good, Tommy should be at least sort of functional right now.  
   
“Yeah,” Jon said, waving his hand in between them, “a hookup.”  
   
Tommy looked down at his hands, pushed his chair away so Jon’s feet couldn’t reach the seat anymore. “I gotta go,” he said, back to Jon, picking up his messenger bag from the floor.  
   
“Where?” Jon demanded, annoyed. Giving Tommy a blowjob was like the least intense thing they’d done, why was Tommy freaking out now?  
   
“Home,” Tommy said, too easily, an NSC lie. “I forgot some contract stuff there, I need to work on it this afternoon. I’ll just do it there, easier than driving back here.” He was grabbing his SmartWater, still not looking at Jon. Jon hated when people wouldn’t look at him.  
   
“Fine,” Jon said. “Have fun. You have come on your shirt, you know.”  
   
Tommy went even paler, as though he hadn’t been the one to fucking jerk Jon off in his lap and fail to catch his come. He looked down at his shirt, and pulled his messenger bag so it was covering the worst of the stains.  
   
“Now you’re going to have come on your messenger bag, too,” Jon informed him, unable to stop himself from being weird and bitter.  
   
Tommy shrugged. He had to walk back to Jon to get his laptop which Jon had shoved behind him, and he kept his body ramrod straight, all muscles locked, keeping himself a careful six inches from Jon as he grabbed his laptop, then immediately stepping back and turning towards the door, not even putting his laptop in its case, just shoving it into the bag.  
   
“Okay, well, bye,” Jon said, staring at the stupid broad planes of his fucking upper back.  
   
“Bye, Lovett,” Tommy said, and disappeared through the door.  
   
Jon didn’t get a lot of work done that afternoon, but what the fuck ever.  
   
***  
   
The next day, Tommy was polite and helpful and just a little distracted. Jon fucking hated it, hated the way Tommy only chuckled at his jokes and didn’t look up from his computer, hated how Tommy was all straight lines and right angles, all the looseness from over the weekend gone. He wanted to push, find a crack in Tommy’s facade and hammer into it so Tommy would have to get as messy as Jon was feeling, but Tommy was like a smooth plane of glass, slippery, no visible weak spots.  
   
They worked independently, quietly, Pundit’s sniffles the only sounds in the office. She wandered over to Tommy sometimes, and Tommy pet her, didn’t croon with his babytalk voice like usual, but hoisted her into his lap, scratched her belly until all Jon could hear was the happy sound of her leg thumping Tommy’s thigh, over and over again. Jon didn’t think you should get to fuck someone in their place of work and then get _mad_ at them and then run away and be weird at them and still fucking pet their dog, but he knew he’d sound insane if he tried to say anything, so he just gritted his teeth and didn’t turn his chair around. He wanted to throw his fucking half-drunk La Croix at Tommy’s face, but instead he left four empty La Croix and three Snickers wrappers on his desk instead of throwing them out, perfectly in Tommy’s line of sight.  
   
Tommy didn’t throw out the wrappers and recycle the cans for Jon when he got up to go to the bathroom, he didn’t call him a fucking mess, he didn’t even roll his eyes. Jon wanted to throw all four of the cans at his face.  
   
Finally, at the end of the day, Jon spent over ten minutes constructing the perfect Jared Kushner joke and then delivered it, flawlessly. Tommy cracked up and Jon smiled, finally victorious, even better than how he felt when he took Tommy all the way down the day before. Tommy made a joke back, and they kept going, quickly developing a bit about Jared Kushner, who really thought the Russian ambassador liked him for him, using a secret backchannel to play 80s songs over his boombox. When Tommy stopped laughing, Jon, high off the feeling of a successful joke, said, “Hey, wanna get dinner? I’m starving.”  
   
Jon was looking at Tommy, could see how his face closed off immediately, posture getting straighter, looking just slightly away from Jon. “I’m actually dogsitting,” he said, awkwardly, “till Saturday, and she’s probably chewed up my whole house by now, so, I should get home.”  
   
“Okay,” Jon said. That was fine. He couldn’t quite figure out what to say after okay, even though he knew he should say something. He swiveled back to his computer, waking it up to write another rant wheel topic.  
   
They worked in silence for another few minutes. Jon could feel Tommy looking at him, and he refused to look up. “Okay, well, bye,” Tommy said eventually, standing up from his chair. “Bye, Pundit.”  
   
“Bye,” Jon said. Pundit ran up to him and woofed, paws on his leg, that traitor. Tommy scratched behind her ears, said, “Bye-bye, Pundit,” more softly, and then left.  
   
***  
   
They recorded ads after their Nancy Pelosi interview the next day. Tommy made some jokes about Parachute and blushed just a little when Jon went on a whole thing about his robe. They got to to Square Cash, and Tommy mentioned, offhand, “Oh, I used the Cash App yesterday to send someone money for a bottle of wine we were buying our friends Jon and Emily while they’re on their honeymoon!”  
   
“You did what?” Jon demanded, immediately feeling himself escalating away from funny podcast outrage into real, unfunny hurt.  
   
Tommy looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time all day. “I sent Jon a bottle of wine while he’s on his honeymoon?”  
   
“And you couldn’t fucking _tell me_ you were doing this _charming group gift_?? You couldn’t look over to where I was sitting two feet from you and ask if I wanted to _also_ chip in because I’m _also_ a groomsman and _also_ friends with Jon and Emily, in case you hadn’t noticed??”  
   
“You’ve never been mad about not being included in the cost of a bottle of wine before,” Tommy pointed out, not unreasonably.  
   
“It’s not about the wine!” Lovett shouted. “It’s about including me when I’m sitting right there, when you’re petting my fucking _dog_ , when the day before I was on my -- “ he cut himself off, suddenly remembering that they were in the studio, that Bill wasn’t there but nice fancy microphones were capturing every horrible hitch of breath and it was all being sent to the fucking cloud or something immediately.  
“I guess we’re rerecording this ad,” Tommy said, after a long moment of silence.  
   
“Great,” Jon said, sullenly. “I’m still going to yell at you about this.”  
   
***  
   
Jon managed to get through the next take by making his feelings funny and loud, and also not saying anything about any of the sex he and Tommy had had. Tommy drove them back to the office after, hands steady on the wheel, not changing the radio from NPR.  
   
They ended up stuck in traffic, of course, because it was LA. Jon scrolled through Twitter and didn't read Tommy any particularly infuriating tweets.  
   
Tommy stared at the flower delivery van in front of them and said, “I'm sorry I didn't ask you if you wanted to chip in on the wine.”  
   
“Apology not accepted,” Jon said, automatically. “But I guess I could have not tried to out you during an ad or whatever.”  
   
Tommy chuckled and said, “Better than a live show.”  
   
Jon read him a bad take on healthcare as a reward, and laughed as Tommy groaned.  
   
Tommy pulled up in front of the office, letting Jon out before he went to find parking. Jon was leaning into the backseat to grab his backpack, on his knees leaning over the divider, when Tommy said, “You and Pundit could come over if you wanted, tonight. Kushi would love to make a friend.”  
   
Jon twisted around to see Tommy, but he was facing forward, and Jon could only see his vaguely pink face in the rearview mirror. “Pundit’s very discerning, there’s no guarantee she’ll want to be friends with Kushi. But we can try it out, I guess. We could get Thai, there’s a good place near you.”  
   
“Cool,” Tommy said, as Jon settled back into his seat and turned to open the door. When Jon glanced back, right before he entered the door, Tommy’s car was still out front, hadn’t moved an inch.  
   
***  
   
They drove home while it was still bright out, sun streaming through the ecologically-inappropriate palm trees. Jon whined about Tommy’s music until Tommy told him to just take the stupid aux cord, and Jon threatened to play only Tony-award-winning musicals but ended up with some vaguely gay indie band.  
   
Tommy whistled easily along to the melody, driving to Jon’s house so he could pick up Pundit. They walked in together, Tommy easy and oriented in Jon’s house. Tommy put Pundit’s leash on, Jon gathered her food, her bowls, her current favorite toy, a frankly alarming squeaky lobster Tommy saw in Maine and insisted on buying for her. Tommy took her on a walk up and down the block as Jon found everything and threw an extra pair of boxers and a toothbrush in his backpack for good measure. Probably they weren’t even going to hook up, and almost definitely Jon wasn’t going to stay over, but whatever. Never hurt to be prepared, that’s what Eagle Scout Tommy Vietor always said.  
   
When they got to Tommy’s, Kushi was barking frantically. Tommy let her knock him over when he opened the door, laughed as she licked his face frantically, paws on his chest pressing him into the floor. Jon stepped over them with Pundit in his arms, because he didn’t need to see that shit when he was still nominally mad at Tommy.  
   
Tommy ordered them Thai, and Jon ate it as unattractively as possible, masochistically interested in whether he could make Tommy stop glancing at him so hungrily. He couldn’t quite get there before Tommy kissed him, harsh, biting his lower lip and shoving him against the couch.  
   
“Ooh, unexpected, Vietor,” Jon said, pulling away, trying to catch his breath. “Dropping the nice romantic act? Ready to make me take it?”  
   
“You’re so -- “ Tommy said, then shook his head, kissed Jon again, biting harder. Jon wiggled against him, his hand caught in between their stomachs. Tommy pushed him back against the cushion again and bit his jaw, his ear, his neck, harder than he had the rest of the week. Jon liked it, of course, he liked when guys got a little rough, especially liked when it was someone he liked and trusted like Tommy. He wouldn’t have minded the kind of deep, slow, soft kisses Tommy seemed obsessed with giving him before, but whatever. Tommy was annoyed with him for something and didn’t feel like giving them, that was fine, it was still great sex.  
   
The dogs were curled up on Kushi’s bed together, napping, because Pundit, as always, felt absolutely no loyalty to the person who gave her food and walks and constant attention and adoration. Jon said, “Bed? I don’t fuck in front of Pundit.”  
   
Tommy looked up at Jon, eyes wide, and then nodded decisively. He stood up, walked Jon to the wall, Jon walking backwards, Tommy grabbing his wrist when he was about to smack into the wall. Tommy took his wrist, pressed it up against the wall above Jon’s head, then caught the other and put it there too, so Tommy was holding both wrists in his stupid big hand.  
   
“We’re still in front of Pundit,” Jon told him, undermining his own point by wrapping one leg around Tommy, off-balance, exposed. He regretted it, but Tommy grabbed his thigh with his free hand, hoisted it up a little higher, pressed himself against Lovett.  
   
“Pundit’s asleep,” Tommy told him, voice low, leaning down to Jon’s ear. Jon tilted his head automatically, a clear invitation, and Tommy accepted it, bit down on a tendon on the side of his neck.  
   
“For now,” Jon warned, darkly. “When you get a dog, you’ll understand.” He pushed his wrists against Tommy’s hand, almost got free before Tommy refocused, pushed against them hard.  
   
“Don’t be a brat, Lovett,” Tommy told him, which was basically just begging Jon to be be a brat.  
   
“Or else what?” he said, shoving at Tommy’s hand again, rubbing his dick against Tommy’s hip.  
   
Tommy took his hand off Jon’s thigh, and almost before he could process that, gave him a smack on his ass, right above his thigh. It wasn’t too hard, but Jon moaned, caught off guard. Tommy smacked him again, harder, and Jon let his mouth fall open, slack. Tommy kissed him, deeper than he did on the couch, still aggressive but not just bites.  
   
They made out against the wall, Tommy smacking him when Jon pushed against his wrists, or just randomly. Jon could feel them both get harder each time it happened, until he was gasping, desperately asking, “Bed?”  
   
Tommy didn’t let go of his wrists, just dragged him to his bedroom, past shelves half-filled with books, blank walls, framed photos of Obama, a life half-put together. He shoved him onto the bed and kneeled above him, pulling Jon’s shirt off and immediately running his nails down Jon’s chest. Jon’s breath caught, and Tommy pressed down harder, digging his nail into the soft side of Jon’s belly, the part Jon sometimes grabbed in the shower and then let go of, resigned to it.  
   
Tommy took control, opening Jon up efficiently, not spending ages tracing outside and half pressing in as Jon babbled dumb shit like on Monday. The only time he backed off and stopped touching, stopped directing, was as he pulled on the condom and said, “We can do it however you want.” Jon looked at him, but he was pink from exertion and talking about sex, focused on the condom he was rolling up his dick. Jon got on his hands and knees, because Tommy didn’t seem that into kissing, today, and he liked it like that, liked being able to press his face against the pillow when it got to be a lot, to feel a broad body caging him in.  
   
Tommy didn’t say anything about how perfect he was or what he looked like, just lined himself up behind Jon, hand on his belly pressing him into Tommy, and pushed in. Jon panted out, “Fu-uuck,” and Tommy paused for a fraction of a second before continuing, pinkie stroking over the hair on Jon’s lower stomach. It felt intense in a new way, Jon unable to distract himself by kissing Tommy, just feeling every inch, sliding from his hands onto his elbows as he got more overwhelmed.  
   
Tommy wasn’t saying anything, and Jon missed the shit he usually said, which he knew was just sex talk, but still, it was nice to hear. Asking for it would be weird, so Jon didn’t, just panted and shoved back onto Tommy’s dick, kept his hands above his head and didn’t touch. Tommy pulled out and smacked him, hard, where Jon could still feel the hits from the living room, and Jon groaned, “Fuck, Tommy, yeah.”  
   
“You like that,” Tommy demanded, halfway between a statement and a question. Jon nodded, frantic, unable to form thoughts, and Tommy smacked him again, on the other side, said, “Answer me, c’mon.”  
   
“Yeah,” Jon gasped, “yeah, yeah, I like that, do it again, for real, harder.”  
   
Tommy shoved back in and said, “God, Jon, you do, fuck.” Jon loved hearing his voice, loved hearing him say Jon all broken and desperate, and it made him make a keening, high noise that he hated hearing.  
   
Wrapping a hand around Jon’s dick, Tommy kept talking. It wasn’t the same as before, a lot less content, a little meaner, but Jon loved it, loved Tommy pushing him and telling him why, loved letting his brain fill up completely with Tommy until almost nothing else was left. Tommy took his other hand off the bed, leaving his weight on Jon, and slid it around Jon’s throat, pressed in just enough for Jon to feel it when he took a breath. Between that and Tommy’s insistent hand around Jon’s dick, Jon came when Tommy told him to.  
   
He slid down to the bed, boneless, thighs flopping apart, cheek turned to the pillow. Tommy kissed his temple, next to his eye, the side of his mouth, surprisingly gentle, and kept fucking him, murmuring a litany of curses mixed with Jon’s name. Jon let his eyes close and just felt it, his sensitive dick against the sheets, Tommy’s hand holding his thigh up, his chest warm and nice against Jon’s back. Tommy came too, an indeterminate amount of time later.  
   
He pulled out right after, went to the bathroom after running a hand down Jon’s side, skipping their usual post-coital making out, lazy and sweet. He came back with a washcloth, the right temperature as always, but he wouldn’t look Jon in the eye while he flipped him over, cleaned him up, pulled him out of the wet spot, all in total silence. Jon wiggled around, unable to get comfy, and Tommy slid his hand to Jon’s lower back, pressed down. Jon relaxed into the pressure, and Tommy kissed his curls, once, before pulling back a little. Jon nuzzled into Tommy’s neck, mouth open against the tendon of his throat, biting down lazily, and Tommy giggled. It was a surprising sound, satisfying and good, and Jon licked him, sloppy and gross.  
   
“Gross,” Tommy complained, but he pulled Jon closer, kissed the top of his head again, tangled their legs more easily together. Jon had been pretty sure Tommy was going to kick him out, but Tommy was showing no signs of movement, and Jon was happy to fall asleep like this.  
   
***  
   
In the morning, Jon woke up alone, which was annoying. He knew that Tommy had his horrible seven am run to take, but he didn’t like waking up to a cold, empty bed. He wasn’t sticky, thanks to Tommy carefully wiping him off, but he felt empty. Monday, Jon had woken up to Tommy lying in bed, answering emails and looking at Jon, and it was so easy to just close his computer and crawl up onto him, to bug him for breakfast and distract him while the eggs were cooking. Now, he’d have to leave bed, find Tommy and figure out what level of detached hookup Tommy wanted them to be, whether he could stay for breakfast or should leave immediately, whether Tommy would want to touch him.  
   
He rolled out of bed and stole a pair of boxers from Tommy’s disgustingly orderly underwear drawer, and a Kenyon lax shirt, just to be a dick. He walked downstairs quietly, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. When he got into the living room, he heard Tommy’s voice coming from the kitchen, and paused. He wasn’t fucking superspy-tradecraft-state-secrets Tommy, who had clearly gone soft in California, but he was a pretty good eavesdropper.  
   
“Yeah, Pundit, I know, your dad’s not into me, it doesn’t matter if I feed you fancy dog food, don’t look at me like that.”  
   
Jon froze.  
   
“You knew how dumb I was on Sunday, huh, girl? Coming over to your house thinking I was dating your dad? Were you laughing at me, Pundit, were you,” he crooned, and Pundit made the happy little bark she made when Tommy scratched her belly.  
   
Jon had never been a great eavesdropper because he could never wait long enough, had to respond to whatever he heard immediately. He started walking again, and Tommy went quiet at the sound of his footstep, then started talking again, just saying, “Heyyyy, Pundit, hey.”  
   
Jon got to the door of the kitchen, where Tommy was sitting on the floor in front of the oven, Pundit in his lap. He looked almost relaxed, but Jon had seen him real relaxed too much to be fooled.  
   
“You thought we were dating?” Jon asked. It popped out of his mouth fully formed.  
   
“What?” Tommy said, not looking at Jon.  
   
“Don’t fucking lie to me,” Jon demanded. “You thought we were dating? And you didn’t tell me? You told my _dog_ instead?”  
   
Pundit ran over to him, barking. Tommy put his head in his hands. Jon could barely hear him murmur, “Fuck.”  
   
“Look at me!” Jon said, hearing his voice get louder and shriller. Tommy did, slowly, and Jon regretted forcing him to. He looked awful, face completely colorless, worse than after the election, worse than after full days in the sitroom, like he did the first time he saw Katie after they broke up.  
   
“Sorry,” Tommy managed.  
   
“For what?” Lovett asked, furious.  
   
Tommy shrugged.  
   
“Why did you think we were dating? Why didn’t you say anything to me?”  
   
Tommy flushed, pink. It looked horrible, too bright next to the white of the rest of his face. “I um. I’m sorry. I thought I -- Saturday night, we uh, kinda talked. I thought we were, uh, I thought you thought so too.”  
   
“Wait, what did you say Saturday night? What did I say? I just remember a lot of kissing and rolling around in bed.”  
   
Tommy looked back at his hands. “Nothing important,” he says, low. “We don’t have to talk about it. I’m sorry.”  
   
“We’re fucking talking about it! This isn’t a fucking multigenerational New England WASP scandal that everyone will die having not spoken about until one of the descendants turns out gay and/or marries a Jew! What the fuck happened Saturday, why have you been so fucking weird all week, since when do you want to fucking date me.”  
   
“Jesus Christ, Lovett,” Tommy said, hands tightening on his knees. “Fine. Don’t fucking interrupt me, I swear to God. Saturday we, uh, hooked up, you know that, and I, I told you I’d been wanting it for a while --” Jon opened his mouth, not sure what he was going to say, but unable to stay silent, “--I told you not to fucking interrupt me, seriously, and you said some nice stuff back, it wasn’t like, official, but it was, you know, it seemed like a start. I’ve been weird because you told me it was a hookup, which is fine, obviously, but I had to deal with some stuff, so, it took me a couple days. Happy now?”  
   
“Since when do you want to fucking date me,” Jon repeated.  
   
“God, Jon, why does it even matter?”  
   
“Tell me.”  
   
“Fine. Fuck. Since like -- since I moved in with you, I guess. I mean, like, not when I was dating Hanna, not really, but that’s when it started. And then, I guess, again more since I moved to LA. But I’m -- I’m dealing with it, I’m sorry.”  
   
Jon just stared. “What the fuck is wrong with you,” he asked, not that nicely, but he was a little preoccupied. “You’ve been into _me_ for like seven fucking years? That’s like, the length of time of a magical curse in a fucking fairytale. Is it going to wear off? Was it a curse?”  
   
Tommy laughed, wet and awful, pushed his knuckles into his eyes. “Can we stop talking about this?” he asked. “Did you know Pundit almost bit a dalmatian on our walk? I know that you’ve taught her that size is no obstacle for fighting everything on earth, but there’s a big difference between Twitter and the mean sidewalks of WeHo.”  
   
“I bet she could have taken him,” Jon said, automatically, and then, “No! We’re fucking talking about this. Don’t use Pundit to distract me, that’s a cheap shot. So, like, Sunday and Monday, that was like, boyfriend Tommy? And last night was hookup Tommy?”  
   
“Um,” Tommy said.  
   
“Because I gotta say, boyfriend Tommy was a way better deal.”  
   
Tommy looked back at him, surprised, cautious, scared.  
   
“I mean, I liked the sexy mean Tommy, but I think you could do that and talk to me and laugh at my jokes with the enthusiasm they deserve as boyfriend Tommy.”  
   
“I could,” Tommy said, tentative.  
   
Jon walked over to him, knelt down. Tommy looked at him. Jon could break him right there, which was terrifying, but it seemed like he could also make him feel good, loose and happy and smiling at Jon. “I’m on board,” he forces himself to say.  
   
Tommy blinked. “With?” he asked, biting his lip, his eyes flickering down to Jon’s mouth.  
   
“Ugh, fine, I’ll fucking say it, but only this once, so you better enjoy it. I’m on board with boyfriend Tommy. Like, as my -- ugh -- boyfriend.”  
   
Jon’s been to a lot of weddings, saw ACA get passed, has had a lot of his own dreams come true. Nothing’s ever felt like watching Tommy’s face transform, smile stretching out to the corners of his face, eyes crinkled up completely, hands reaching out to Jon almost unconsciously. “I’m your boyfriend,” he said, like he was trying the words out, savoring them.  
   
“We’re in our thirties, should you be my partner? No, fuck that, that’s so unsexy, straight people have ruined it, typic--” he was cut off by Tommy leaning in, kissing him, so sweet, smiling to wide to make it a good kiss. Jon smiled too, involuntary, and slid his hand onto Tommy’s cheek.  
   
“Boyfriend,” Jon confirmed, when Tommy pulled back, barely, their noses still brushing.  
   
“Sounds good,” Tommy said, giggling a little, hand on the back of Jon’s neck, just cupping.  
   
It did sound good. Jon thought it would keep sounding good, until an even better word came around.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm [here](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/veryspecificfantasies) on tumblr, screaming, as always.


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